Safe Haven
by NativeStar
Summary: Sam and a badly injured Dean turn up on Deacon's doorstep late at night but it's only a matter of time before those behind Dean's injuries catch up with them.
1. Teaser

**Title:** Safe Haven  
**Word Count:** 100 words  
**Rating:** PG  
**Warnings:** None  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.  
**A/N:** Written for the spnthurnights drabble challenge and for starrylizard's prompt.  
**Words of prompt:** phone call, ransom, "he's hurt bad"  
**Summary:** It's the kind of phonecall you dread getting in the middle of the night.

* * *

Pulled roughly from sleep it takes two tries before his hand grasps the ringing phone and he murmurs a greeting. 

"He's hurt bad."

It's like a bucket of ice, a shot of adrenaline and gallon of caffeine all at once.

"Who is this? Who's hurt?"

"Sam Winchester. It's Dean, he's hurt bad." He remembers the brothers. _John's boys._

"Where are you?"

"'bout twenty miles out."

He thinks about his job, his mother in the nursing home. He can't harbour fugitives, but—

"Come here."

"We need somewhere safe, they didn't get their ransom."

"You'll be safe here, I promise."

"Thanks, Deacon."

* * *

This has ended up being more of a teaser to a story than a pure drabble but I hope you still enjoyed it. I mentioned when I claimed this that I thought it had ficlet potential. I can safely say I was wrong, it's gonna be longer. I've almost finished the first chapter, and I'll be posting that very soon. 

Anywho, I'd love to hear what you think about the drabble!


	2. Chapter One

**Title:** Safe Haven  
**Author:** NativeStar  
**Word Count:** 2,473 words  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** None  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.  
**A/N:** This is written for the spnthurnights fic exchange and dragynflygrl on LJ.

Huge thank you to the betas justruth and ispeaktongue on LJ.

* * *

Pulled roughly from sleep it takes two tries before his hand grasps the ringing phone and he murmurs a greeting. A shaking voice answers. 

"He's hurt bad."

It's like a bucket of ice, a shot of adrenaline and gallon of caffeine all at once. He sits up, dreams forgotten.

"Who is this? Who's hurt?"

"It's Sam. I'm with Dean, he's hurt bad." His mind takes a moment to catch up, then supplies him with _Winchester._ He remembers the brothers. _John's boys.  
_

"Where are you?"

"'bout twenty miles out."

He thinks about his job, his mother in the nursing home. He can't harbour fugitives, but—

"Come here."

"We need somewhere safe, they didn't get their ransom." _Ransom? What the— _no, that doesn't matter right now.

"You'll be safe here. I promise." They risked everything to help him last year, it's the least he can do.

"Thank you, Deacon."

The line clicks dead.

Dropping the phone to the bed Deacon takes a moment to scrub the sleep from his eyes. Confusion and questions swirl in his mind.

_Ransom._

_Sam had said ransom._

_Someone had held Dean for ransom? And now he's hurt bad and someone or god forbid _something _didn't have their ransom?_

Groaning, he pushes himself out of his warm bed. His hand slaps the switch on the bedside lamp and he squints at the sudden light.

_  
What the hell have those boys gotten themselves into?_

_What the hell have _I _gotten myself into?_

* * *

_  
_Deacon can't remember twenty miles ever taking so long as he waits by the door, watching out the window next to it. The trees by the road limit his view and his hand tightens around the door handle with every set of headlights that pass by. He hears the growl of the Impala just before he sees it pull up the driveway and he's out the door before Sam cuts the engine off.

The outdoor light flicks on automatically and casts enough light that he can see Dean half lying in the passenger seat, his head resting on Sam's thigh. His face is dark with the blood that covers most of his face. Any other injuries are hidden, both by the dark and the tan jacket wrapped around his shoulders.

Deacon's not even sure he's conscious.

Sam gets out carefully, moving Dean's head gently to the seat below.

"Sam, what the hell happened?"

"I…it's a long story. Can we just – I need to–" he gestures to Dean.

Deacon nods. Sam's looking pale himself with the exception of the dark smudges beneath his eyes and Deacons understands that Sam can't think further than _help Dean_ at this point.

"All right, son, tell me everything later. The first aid kit's in the spare bedroom. Let's get him in there."

* * *

Deacon's home is a small detached house on the outskirts of town. The trees obscure the view from the road but he'll move the Impala into the garage later anyway. Deacon just hopes no one drives by while they're supporting a bloody Dean into the house.

Dean doesn't wake during the difficult manoeuvre to relocate him to the bed in the spare room. It's both a blessing and a concern, because once he wakes up he's going to be in a whole world of pain but he's lucky enough to miss out on the fair bit of jostling involved in getting him up the stairs - accidentally pressing on some of the visible bruises and wounds should have been enough to make him scream blue murder.

They didn't get a flicker of a reaction.

Sam all but pushes Deacon out of the way once they're in the room, opening both Deacon's first aid kit and his own.

Old habits die hard and Deacon has always made sure his first aid supplies are well stocked and extensive, even though the most he's had to deal with in a long time is the occasional accidental cut or burn from the stove, neither which required much more than a band aid. Until today that is. He'll probably have to restock most of his kit by tomorrow.

* * *

Sam's hands are shaking as he cuts a path through the dirt and blood on Dean's face with an antiseptic wipe.

"Sam, let me."

"No."

"Your hands are shaking, Sam."

"No." Sam's knuckles stand out white against the box of wipes he clutches. The message is coming through clear to Deacon_; this is Dean, _my_ brother, _my _responsibility_. "I'm fine."

"I was a Corps medic. He'll be in good hands."

Sam shuts his eyes and Deacon's heart goes out to the boy when he takes a deep breath, clearly struggling to choke down the irrational protectiveness. It's hard for Sam to accept that he can stand down now, and Deacon knows that feeling all too well. He wants to tell Sam that it's okay that his hands won't stop shaking, but Deacon doesn't much like the possibility of being on the wrong side of a punch.

"I didn't know." Sam admits as he finally relinquishes the antiseptic.

They shift places and Sam collapses into the chair by the desk, his eyes still on Dean. Deacon is left with no doubts that while Sam trusts him, it's very much Sam's watch.

Deacon carefully starts assessing Dean's injuries, trying to find out exactly where he's hurt and what needs his attention first. Sam can't sit still, he fidgets and his knee won't stop bouncing. It's a nervous energy that is crying out to put to use. He clenches his hands hard and Deacon can't tell if he's trying to hide or stop the shaking, either way it's not working. He needs to do _something_, Deacon realises.

Deacon mentions getting some water and towels and Sam leaves the room without waiting for directions to the bathroom. You don't need steady hands to clean the dirt off someone and he needs to be useful.

* * *

Deacon's hands skim over Dean's skull, and he's relieved to find that they've come away blood free and haven't discovered any large bumps. Dean's face is covered in dry blood though, and there's a bad gash at his hair line that's the most likely source. But Deacon isn't too worried about that. He knows head wounds bleed like bitches.

Sam returns with towels and warm water and starts cleaning the Dean's face. His wipes are careful and gentle, applying just enough pressure to remove the blood.

He pulls back the tan jacket, sliding it down Dean's arms and picks up the scissors from the kit. There's no easy way to get Dean out of the t-shirt underneath and he makes a long cut directly down the centre of his chest, peeling it away.

His chest is a kaleidoscopic array of cuts and bruises.

Deacon sucks in a breath.

"Sam?"

"I don't know what they did to him. What you see is what I know." His voice is tight and Deacon can almost hear the self recrimination there.

"Who's they?"

"We weren't followed so it doesn't really matter right now, does it?" Sam snaps at Deacon who feels his own anger rising. He's just taken in a couple of wanted men, one of which is bleeding all over his sheets. They're asking a lot of him; doesn't he at least have the right to know?

Sam sighs, and Deacon knows he's been thinking the same. His anger evaporates as quickly as it rose.

"I'm sorry. I just…it's been a long week. I don't know exactly who took Dean. They looked human, but in our line of work it's not just humans who can look human."

Deacon doesn't know a whole lot about their line of work - ignorance can sometimes be bliss - but he knows enough to know he's probably not going to like the answer if he pushes the question.

"Okay. Its okay, Sam. Let's just take care of Dean. No more questions for now."

Sam gives a barely perceptible nod and returns to his task.

His training comes back to him like it was only yesterday he was a medic not thirty odd years ago as Deacon runs his hands down Dean's ribcage. A couple of times the bruised flesh gives way under his hands where it shouldn't.

"He's got at least a couple of cracked, maybe even broken ribs."

Sam nods.

"His breathing is a little fast and shallow for my liking but it'd be a lot worse if one of those suckers had punctured a lung."

Sam probably already knows this, Deacon would be surprised if both boys didn't have a pretty extensive knowledge of first aid and triage, but Sam's shoulders relax slightly at the news.

There're a couple of deep slices in Dean's side, and another on the inside of his right forearm that'll need stitches but they've stopped bleeding for now. Dean's shoulder is a swollen lump, Deacon can't be sure but he'd bet it was dislocated recently. He carefully moves the arm, feeling how the joint moves. It's normal and although it'll be painful for a while, should hopefully heal fine.

Deacon ignores the voice in the back of his mind as it quotes medical text books that warn of the nerve damage caused by joints popped back in wrong. _ This boy should be in a hospital getting x-rays and MRI scans._

Dean's wrists are red and raw. Rope or plastic had cut into them badly and they'll need to be cleaned and bandaged, but again, it can wait until Deacon's sure there's nothing more life threatening to deal with.

He undoes Dean's jeans, sliding them down his legs and off his filthy sock clad feet. He feels awkward at this invasion of privacy. Dean is unconscious and practically naked. He was good friends with John, at least until he dropped off the map, but John's boys? Save for the few conversations they had about six months ago when he contacted them for help, he barely knows them.

Thankfully there's nothing but bruises and scratches along Dean's legs, his jeans had taken the brunt of the abuse. The socks go straight into the trash can in the corner of the room, there's no salvaging them.

Deacon grabs a suture kit and starts the task of salvaging Dean.

* * *

Dean wakes up, if it can be called that, before Deacon has finished. It's like a switch has been flipped. He goes from zero to ninety in no time at all with a strength that he shouldn't possess. Dean brings his good arm up sharply, lashing out, and catching Deacon solidly on his jaw, knocking him on his ass, before Sam gets to his brother.

"Hey…hey, Dean. It's ok, you're ok. It's all right."

Sam grabs Dean's arms and it takes a pathetically small amount of effort to pin them to his side, but Dean's caught in his memories, still not aware and the feeling of being restrained causes him to double his attempts to get free.

"Dean! You're all right. Look at me!" Sam leans in so his face is directly in Dean's line of sight. "It's Sam, they're not here. I am. I gotcha, you're okay."

Glassy eyes focus on Sam and Dean groans, long and low but his struggles ease…or maybe he's just reached the end of his strength.

"You're all right, Dean." Sam continues a litany of reassurances, a constant reminder that Dean is with his brother. Deacon gets to his feet as Sam lets go of Dean's arms and a moment later Dean's passed out again.

Sam's concerned eyes meet his and Deacon's surprised by the amount of emotion he finds there. _Concern, fear, worry, love._ All for Dean. Deacon's not sure he's ever met a pair of brothers as close as these two.

Dean's a mess, but to be honest it's not as bad as he was dreading. Deacon can more than deal with this.

Sam can't.

He leaves the room without a backward glance and Deacon ignores the glistening streaks down his face.

* * *

Deacon finds Sam in the kitchen. He's sat at the table with a hand curled around a glass of whiskey and a book laid out in front of him. Sam is nothing more than a zombie, staring at the book like its sheer hard-headedness that's keeping his eyes open. Heck, it probably is if Sam is anything like John.

Deacon wants nothing more right now than to sit Sam down in his kitchen with a glass of strong whiskey and demand the entire story from him. He's just aided and abetted known criminals, for the second time in six months, men wanted by the FBI for Pete's sake, and who knows _what_ else might be after them right now. But Sam's dead on his feet, and Deacon always did have a soft spot for lost puppies and stray dogs. His mother said it would get him into trouble one day.

_Looks like that day has come, Ma._

Deacon glances at the book between Sam's elbows, and although it's upside down he can see the diagrams and with what looks like Latin printed underneath.

"What're you reading?" He asks as he takes a seat opposite Sam.

Sam startles and Deacon wonders if Sam had actually fallen asleep with his eyes open.

"Nothing," he laughs, short and half hearted. "I'm just staring at the page, nothing's going in. Hope you don't mind." He indicates to the drink as he shuts the book.

"It's fine, I think you more than need it."

"It's been a helluva week." Sam nods. "How's Dean?"

"Not great, I've done what I can. He's got three busted ribs, a dislocated shoulder, couple of cuts that needed stitching. There's needle tracks on his arm from god knows what, and he's dehydrated. Scrapes and bruises everywhere."

"_God, Dean_." Sam whispers.

"He'd be better off in a hospital, Sam."

"We can't. Not just because of the FBI. It'd be too easy to find us, too hard to protect Dean." Sam's getting agitated and Deacon worries that Sam misunderstood him.

"It's okay, I'm not gonna throw you out. We'll do what we can for him here."

"Thanks. Look, Deacon. I know you want to know what happened--"

"Dean needs rest now. So do you. Don't think I missed those suitcases under your eyes, we'll talk about it in the morning."

"I'm fine."

"Only if fine means sleep deprived and exhausted. C'mon, you can have my son's old room."

"Thanks, but I'll be fine in the chair. Blanket and a pillow will do me fine."

"Sam--"

"I can't," he glances over at Dean. "I just can't."

Deacon sighs.

"Then come help me with the mattress. There's enough room in here, you might as well be comfortable."

Sam smiles for the first time since he arrived on Deacon's doorstep.

* * *

Please let me know what you think! The comments I got for the drabble really inspired and motivated me, I had most of this chapter done in a weekend! Any constructive criticism would also be appreciated as I do find chapter fics a lot harder to write, there's always room for improvement. 


	3. Chapter Two

**Title:** Safe Haven (2?)

**Author:** NativeStar  
**Word Count:** 2,235 words  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** None  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.  
**A/N:** Deacon is the prison guard from the episode Folsom Prison Blues. Huge thank you to the betas justruth and ispeaktongue. Apologies for being late with this; life has been very busy. However, I'm determined to finish this and post more regularly from now on.  
**Summary:** Sam and a badly injured Dean turn up on Deacon's doorstep late at night but it's only a matter of time before those behind Dean's injuries catch up with them.

* * *

Despite his body's exhaustion, Sam's mind was hyper aware. The last week had been one thing after another and it wasn't something he could just shut off. Deep down he didn't feel entirely safe, so he salted the windows and doors. Either way, it was probably the safest place for them right now. Still, it only took the sudden sound of rain falling on the window to wake him up.

_Three hours sleep. Great._

He checked on Dean.

His brother hadn't shifted an inch, his features slack and pale. Sam had seen corpses with more color and – his heart jumped into his throat -- in the dim light he couldn't see Dean's chest moving at _all_. Sam quickly pushed himself to his knees, clumsily hitting the switch on the bedside lamp while his other hand found Dean's shoulder. The sudden light caused Dean to wince and he moved his head away from the offending source, but he didn't wake.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, letting out the breath he had been holding in a whoosh. He watched the shallow, steady and repetitive rise and fall of Dean's chest for a couple of minutes, long enough to slow the thud of his heart in his own chest.

_He didn't die. He won't die. I got him. He'll be fine._

Giving up on sleeping, Sam turned the light off again and made his way to the kitchen. He could smell the coffee before he reached the door and wasn't surprised to find Deacon sitting at the table with a steaming mug.

"Help yourself." Deacon gestured to the pot.

"Did you even go to bed?" Sam asked as he shuffled over to the counter and filled a mug with the strong coffee brewing in the carafe.

"I could ask you the same question."

"Touché. I got in a couple hours."

"Same. There's food in the cupboard if you're hungry."

"Thanks." Sam walked over. "And thanks for taking us in. I know--"

"Tell me about it once I've had my coffee, Sam. Not before."

Sam smiled. Dean was the same, and he'd gotten it from their dad. Never a conversation could be had before that first cup of coffee.

* * *

One coffee later and Sam and Deacon had relocated to the lounge. The light brown sofas were comfortable and broken in; Sam sank down into one and stretched out his legs. He may have just had a large cup of caffeine but if he closed his eyes he'd probably fall right back asleep.

Photos were dotted about the room and a couple of car magazines rested on the coffee table, along with what must have been the remnants of Deacon's dinner, a takeout of some sort. A photo on the bookshelf by the door caught Sam's attention. It was Deacon with a pretty brunette woman and a kid, a boy who couldn't have been more than nine. Beside it was another photo of a young man with a stethoscope hanging from his neck. He was grinning like he'd won the lottery and the smile was infectious, causing a small smile to tug at Sam's own mouth. If Deacon wasn't the young man then he was definitely a close relation.

"Your family?" Sam asked, tilting his head to the photo.

"Yeah, my wife Brenda and my son, Toby."

"She's beautiful."

"Yes, she was," Deacon smiled, a sad smile that was all too familiar to Sam.

"Was?"

"She's dead." Deacon ducked his head and Sam almost regretted asking about the photo.

"I'm sorry,"

"It's okay; it was a few years ago. Doesn't get easier but…"

Sam nodded, he understood and looked for a way to change the conversation, steer it onto less painful ground.

"Is this your son Toby, too?" He indicated the picture of the young man.

"Yeah, he's a doctor, a resident at a hospital in Denver." Deacon smiled and there was no mistaking the pride he had for his son. "Takes after his old man I guess, I wanted to be a doctor once."

"Yeah, I wondered about that last night, how do you go from Marine medic to prison warden?"

"It's a long story, Sam." Deacon sighed and rubbed his head as though he was easing a headache. "I think I'd much rather know how come you boys ended up on my doorstep at a godforsaken hour of the morning."

"Yeah, okay." Sam pushed himself up in the chair and leaned forward so his elbows rested on his knees. "I guess I should start at the beginning. That was a week ago. We'd just finished a job in Colorado. A regular salt and burn. The spirit of an old man had been terrorizing the community; nobody had paid him any attention when he was alive, it had been four days before his body was found. We were heading back to the car when we got hit with tranquilizer darts…"

_One week earlier…_

"Dude!"

"C'mon Sam, he had it coming."

Sam snorted, trying and failing to repress his grin at Dean's inappropriate comment. They were walking, side by side, shovels on shoulders, back to the car after a successful salt and burn.

Suddenly, Dean flinched as though stung.

"What the…" He turned his arm around and Sam saw a dart poking out of the upper arm of his jacket.

"Fuuuck." Dean slurred as he staggered to his knees.

"Dean!"

There was a pinch in Sam's arm and without looking he knew he'd been hit too. A heaviness spread like fire through his veins, pulling his body down. He didn't even make it the few feet to Dean before he was tasting graveyard dirt. He blinked, struggling to open his eyes again. Between heavy blinks he briefly saw the back of a man standing over his unconscious brother before his eyes slipped shut again.

And stayed shut.

The sun's warmth on his face was the first thing Sam was aware of. Next came the sound of a bird's song, bringing with it a sledgehammer of a headache. Groaning he rolled onto his side, placing a hand flat against the ground to steady himself, and it was only then, feeling the dewy grass beneath his palm, that he put it all together and realised he was outside.

He opened his eyes, wincing at the spike in his headache it caused as his memories of the previous night came back to him in flashes.

Cemetery.

_Flash_

Salt and burn.

_Flash_

Prick of a tranquilizer dart.

_Flash_

Seeing Dean fall.

Dean.

_Dean._

He was still in the cemetery, but there was no Dean. Not on the ground beside him where Sam had seen him fall and not anywhere in the vicinity that Sam could see.

"Dean!" Sam scrambled to his feet, staggering the first few steps. "Dean!"

He quickly searched the area where he'd woken, calling Dean's name before returning to the Impala. Maybe Dean woke up before him? Maybe he'd been semi-conscious and had wandered off only to collapse again? Maybe Sam would find him at the car, passed out?

But Sam knew that Dean would not just leave him lying on the ground.

The Impala was exactly where they had parked her. Surprisingly untouched; tires were fine, the trunk had not been tampered with and the engine started without a fuss. There was no sign Dean had returned to the car since they'd left it the night before, which meant only one thing.

Dean was missing.

* * *

Despondently, Sam returned to the motel. He'd searched the cemetery thoroughly, thinking that maybe a drugged Dean had wandered off and fallen somewhere or collapsed, but ended up making a sombre trip back to the car empty handed.

As he pulled into the parking lot he noticed the girl at the check in desk, her brown ponytail swishing enthusiastically as she waved him over.

"Someone left a package for you. Must be real important because he paid me to ensure you received it. Said I had to hand it to you myself."

She passed him a small brown package. There was no name on it, nothing to indicate where or who it could have come from.

"I've been real curious about what could be in it." The girl jabbered away, hovering by Sam's elbow. "He was insistent I make sure you got it as soon as possible, you know?" Obviously she didn't hand out packages to her guests very often; she was just itching with curiosity.

Sam resisted the urge to rip it open right there and then. He had no doubt this was connected with Dean's disappearance but was equally sure he should probably open it in private.

"Thanks. Appreciate it."

If it weren't for the situation, the look of disappointment on the receptionists face would have been amusing.

_Present Day_

"I went back to our motel room before opening it."

"What was it?" Deacon asked, leaning forward.

"A picture. A Polaroid of Dean. Bound, gagged and unconscious." Sam's hands clenched into fists as he remembered how helpless he'd felt when he'd seen the picture.

"That was it? No…instructions? Ransom note?"

"No, there was –"

_Thud_

It came from upstairs, a loud and solid thump, just like a body hitting the floor.

_Dean._

Sam took the stairs three at a time.

_I shouldn't have left him alone._

_He's woken up disorientated, confused… scared._

_I should have been there._

Relief didn't quite cover it when Sam flung the door back and found Dean perfectly fine, although the broken lamp on the floor wasn't. Dean was awake, his eyes open and he flinched when the door swung back, banging loudly on the wall behind.

"Dean. Thank God."

Dean swallowed and Sam could see his glassy eyes weren't all that focused.

"Dean, hey, it's ok. We're at Deacon's. Remember? The warden at Green River jail who knew Dad? We're safe. I made sure of it. Okay?"

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and tentatively reached a hand to Dean's shoulder. Dean stared at Sam, then the hand, like he couldn't believe either was really there.

"I'm here Dean. I'm really here. What did they do to you, man?"

Immediately Sam saw the shutters slamming down behind Dean's eyes, cutting himself off from Sam and the rest of the world. _Protecting himself. _Dean shook his head almost imperceptibly. He looked like he was about to shatter in a million shards, and if he did, he was taking Sam's heart along with him.

Sam understood him, even without the words.

_Too soon. The memories are too raw._

"Okay. All right. Are you in pain? Do you want some painkillers?"

Dean hesitated briefly, then nodded halting suddenly as his head reminded him of his very recent head injury.

While it worried Sam that Dean agreed to painkillers so readily, as it said a lot about the amount of pain he had to be in, Dean's slight hesitation filled him with hope. Usually his brother resisted taking anything stronger than Tylenol, claiming it clouded his judgement too much. The hesitation proved that Dean was still in there, somewhere.

Sam shook out two Vicodin from a bottle in their kit, leftover from a previous emergency room visit. He supported Dean's head while he took the pills and it earned him a glare, albeit one that was nowhere near its usual intensity.

Sam waited for the _I can do it myself, bitch_ but it never came. Dean's hand was shaking too much to hold the glass of water himself, so like it or not Sam helped him, promising to find a straw for next time.

Once the glass of water was gone, Dean curled in on himself, weakly pushing his legs to his chest and rocking to the side slightly. Sam quickly caught on and helped Dean ease over to his uninjured side.

Dean's eyes were cloudy with pain and exhaustion but there was something else there. Dean looked…defeated. It reminded Sam of those times after their father's death when he'd catch Dean staring at Dad's journal or his phone, looking completely and utterly lost.

"It's gonna be okay, Dean. I know you're feeling pretty shitty right now, but you're safe. We're both safe and we're gonna be okay."

Sam pulled the blanket up over Dean's shoulders as his eyes dropped closed, then sprang open a couple of times.

"It's alright, Dean. I'll stay until you fall asleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

Dean's hand crept out from underneath the blankets and wrapped itself around Sam's wrist.

Sam was tempted to tell Dean that this was possibly one of the most chick flick acts he'd committed…well, ever. Even their rare hugs were manly and brief. But he didn't want to break the security that Dean so obviously needed. And, well, maybe Sam needed it a little himself too.

Sam rested his free hand on top of Dean's and sighed, feeling the weight on his shoulders lighten. This was the first time Dean had been awake and coherent in two days. He was far from okay, but it was a relief to Sam to know that he wasn't on his own in this anymore.

Dean's breaths evened out as he sank back into sleep but it was another five minutes before the lines of pain eased around Dean's eyes. It was only then that it hit Sam.

Dean had not said a single word.

**TBC**

* * *

Reviews are greatly appreciated, good or bad. They also work wonders at motivation so while I am already working on chapter 3 a little extra motivation won't go amiss!


	4. Chapter Three

**Title:** Safe Haven (3/?)  
**Author:** NativeStar  
**Word Count:** 2,853 words  
**Rating:** PG-13 (bit of language)  
**Warnings:** None  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.  
**A/N:** Deacon is the prison guard from the episode Folsom Prison Blues. Huge thank you to the betas justrith and ispeaktongue.  
**Summary:** Sam and a badly injured Dean turn up on Deacon's doorstep late at night but it's only a matter of time before those behind Dean's injuries catch up with them.

* * *

_Dean hadn't spoken._

The thought looped around Sam's head, gathering speed. His brother, who was rarely silent and always had a comeback (no matter how lame), had not uttered a single word.

"Sam?"

Deacon stood in the doorway.

"He didn't say anything." Sam said, running a hand through his hair.

"He's been through a lot, Sam." Deacon spoke calmly, leaning against the doorframe.

"I know that. But even when our dad died, he didn't--"

"Give him time, he was pretty out it. I'm sure he'll be better when he wakes up next."

Sam nodded. _Dean's strong; it'd take more than a beating to bring him down._

"Could it be the drugs?" Sam asked as he grabbed Dean's arm, turning it so he could see the needle marks for himself, noting how many there were.

"Possibly, although I would have thought they'd be out of his system by now if that was the case. But honestly, we don't have a clue what they gave him or let alone how long they last."

"We've no way of testing his blood." It's a statement more than a question but Deacon answered it anyway.

"No. Sorry. Besides, if it were drugs they could be undetectable by now. We'd be risking you boys being found unnecessarily."

"But what if he needs something? A counter agent? Something to flush it out his system?"

"Look, Sam. He's not in any distress right now. He's just... silent. If he was in a lot of pain or it was making him sick then yes, I'd say, we should do something. But right now, I think we just need to let him ride it out. Whatever it is."

"Might not even be drugs. Might be some kind of supernatural hoodoo."

"So what happened?" Deacon asked, changing the topic. It was as much out of curiosity as an effort to distract Sam from Dean; he was working himself up over something he simply couldn't do anything about.

"What? When?"

"After you got the photo."

"Oh, right." Sam sat down at the foot of Dean's bed while Deacon took the chair. "I didn't hear anything for the rest of the day. I spent it searching for Dean. Going back to people we'd talked to, places we'd been in the town. I didn't think it was connected to the case we'd been working. It'd been pretty much open and shut but you never knew. I called some friends of ours, to see if anyone had heard anything. Any rumours of anything going down -- but there was nothing. Dean literally had disappeared without a trace and all I really had to go on was that photo."

_Six days earlier_

A car horn blared from the road outside the motel room and Sam jerked awake. Quickly he checked his watch. Six AM.

_Damnit._

He'd been asleep four hours. He'd spent most of yesterday calling people, trying to figure out who could be behind this. He stretched, easing his neck carefully from side to side, ignoring the aches of protest. Sleeping in a chair was not a good idea, but then, Sam hadn't intended to sleep there. He'd only wanted to rest his eyes, tired and dry from staring at the laptop screen for hours.

He fumbled for his phone, hoping that while he'd been out Bobby or Ellen or _someone_ had found something.

_No messages, no phone calls. How am I supposed to find Dean?_

His stomach growled loudly. He'd ordered some pizza at some point the night before and there was still a quarter left. But Sam needed caffeine, and probably something more substantial than cold leftovers. There was a café across the street; it'd take him five minutes, maybe ten if he had to wait in line.

He grabbed his jacket and stepped out the door, knocking over a small brown paper bag that had been left directly in front of the motel room.

"What the –"

He picked the bag up which had some weight to it, but wasn't heavy. Sam immediately scanned the parking lot hoping to catch sight of whoever might have left it. But he didn't even know how long it had been sitting there. For all he knew someone had left it hours ago. Few people abandoned bags outside motel rooms, and Sam had a sinking feeling it was from whoever was holding Dean

_If it's from them, how the hell did they know where I am?_

After the photo, he'd moved to a motel clear across town. He hadn't wanted to go too far but the idea that Dean's kidnappers knew where he was unnerved him. Sam had been extra careful to ensure he'd not been followed and the Impala was parked in out of sight. There was no way they should have been able to find him so quickly. 

He retreated back into the motel room to open it, locking the door behind him. The top of the bag had been rolled down and he unrolled it, reaching into the bag. His hand closed around a small, warm glass jar. He pulled it out, his breath catching when he saw the bright red fluid inside.

_Blood. Oh God. It's Dean's blood._

There was always the chance they'd used cows' blood and assumed that Sam wouldn't know the difference. But Sam's instincts told him they meant business, and it was most likely his brother's blood. And it was _warm_, so Dean had to be close. The idea that Dean was near, but out of his reach? Frustration didn't even begin to cover it. At least the jar was small; it could only contain a quarter of a litre at most, not enough to cause any damage.

Unlike last time, Sam found a sheet of paper in the bag too. He pulled it out.

_Sam,  
Did you know the human body contains roughly five litres of blood?_

_We want The Scroll of Asteroth._

_We'll be sending jars daily until either you find it or Dean is bled dry.  
Work fast._

That was it. No instructions on how to contact them if Sam did find this _something of someone_. A threat and a demand, that was all. But whoever it was knew their names, that fact and the something of someone might narrow things down a fair bit. Sam reached out for the phone to call Bobby.

And as the phone rang, finally, despite the blood, the note and Dean still being missing, Sam felt better. This was something to go on. This involved research, something Sam was exceptional at.

This was progress and this, Sam could work with.

_Present day_

"What _is_ the scroll of Asteroth?"

"That's just it, we don't know. The most we've been able to find has been a reference to it in an obscure book on the occult." Sam could feel his blood pressure rising as he remembered the days of intense research, watching the time disappear and finding virtually nothing. "It claimed it was a ritual of immense power. But to be honest I'm not even sure it exists, and even if it does I have no idea how to find it."

Deacon nodded, overwhelmed. _Rituals? An obscure occult reference?_ Not for the first time since letting the Winchesters in the night before did he question his decision. There were so many ways he could end up regretting that choice. The Feds had only just given up on their surveillance of him after the breakout, although having his door broken down by the FBI was, to be honest, the least of his worries.

It was almost seven o'clock when Deacon decided he could do with some fresh air and he knew Dean definitely needed more than their limited first aid kits could offer. At least _that_ was one thing he could do something about.

"I'm gonna go out for a bit." Deacon said as he stood and stretched. "I can get some supplies from the clinic in town. It'll be open by the time I get there."

"Supplies?"

"IV fluids, painkillers, antibiotics. Your brother needs more than basic first aid right now."

"I know that. But…I don't think we can risk it right now." Sam was torn, and not for the first time he cursed the life they led. Together he and Dean had saved countless lives and yet they were forced to live under the radar, denied proper medical treatment.

"It's okay." Deacon reassured. "I know someone at the clinic. She's discrete, doesn't ask too many questions, and doesn't broadcast the answers."

Sam still looked sceptical.

"I trust her, and she trusts me, she won't say anything." Deacon paused and shifted uncomfortably before admitting. "…And I may have taken her out to dinner a few times."

Sam laughed. "Deacon, you sly dog."

Someone who was more than a friend inspired a little more than your run of the mill loyalty. It was still a risk, but a more acceptable one.

"Okay," Sam said, nodding. "Thank you."

* * *

Dean slept like the dead the entire time Deacon was gone. Sam leafed through a couple of books and if anyone had been around to ask he would have claimed he was doing research. But really he was more interested in when Deacon was returning and how long it would be before Dean woke up again.

Because this limp, silent rag doll impression of Dean's? Sucked out loud and made Sam's gut twist.

It was a full two hours before Sam heard the key in the door again. He rushed downstairs and found Deacon walking in with a large bag.

"She didn't buy my story of a clumsy friend with a phobia of doctors," Deacon said, but before Sam could voice his concern, he waved it off, and continued. but I told her it was important and like I said, she trusts me." Deacon explains as he hands the bag to Sam so he can relock the door.

"She won't say anything?"

"No. But she made me promise to tell her everything later and to watch out for myself. I think she thinks I've taken in some homeless person or something." Deacon said with a soft laugh.

"Are you going to?"

"What? Tell her everything? Hell, no. But at least I have some time now to come up with a better story."

Sam smiled and followed Deacon up to Dean's room.

It turned out that the raid on the clinic had been more than successful. Bandages, ace wraps and chemical ice packs were packed in the bag alongside a sling to immobilise Dean's dislocated shoulder and several IV bags.

"Saline fluid. Should help keep him hydrated." Deacon explained as he probed Dean's good arm for a vein. Dean jerked but didn't wake when Deacon stuck him with the needle and Sam was secretly impressed that for a guy who hadn't been a medic for over thirty years it only took two attempts before establishing a line.

A picture hung above the bed and Deacon removed the frame and hung the bag from the conveniently placed hook in the wall.

"If there are any drugs in his system other than the painkillers you gave him, it'll help flush them out."

* * *

There was pain before there was awareness, but with awareness came _Sam_. Everything ached, but parts of his body were throbbing with a burning intensity. He didn't open his eyes. Instead he took inventory of his various injuries and tried to breathe through the pain, except, _damn_ if that didn't hurt like hell too.

He could sense someone else was in the room, could hear a second set of breathing, steadier than his own and he knew it was Sam.

"Dean?"

A warm hand settled on his arm.

"You awake?"

Dean knew he should open his eyes. But they felt like they were tied down with heavy paperweights with glue along the rims for good measure. His voice wasn't cooperating either and it was all _too much effort_. He was tired, he was hurt and he'd been through hell. He wasn't sure he wanted to break through the blackness of his eyelids. He'd much rather embrace it. Sink back into the dark, into the reprieve it offered from all that awareness.

"Okay, guess not." Sam spoke again and a lifetime of reading his brother meant that just from his voice, Dean could tell Sam was both worried and tired. And Dean knew he was the cause of it.

Awareness was fading when the thought crossed his mind; _is Sam okay? _He realised he didn't have a clue; his short-term memory was sketchy at best.

He tried again, and finding energy he didn't know he had he managed to open his eyes. Just a slit at first but within a few blinks he'd worked his way up to half mast.

"Hey." Sam grinned, relief and affection in his voice. _That's much better_, Dean thought as he saw for himself that Sam appeared tired but fine.

It was too much effort to move his head but he could see the open door leading to a landing and a full bookcase against the wall of a room he didn't recognise. He vaguely remembered waking up before and Sam mentioning Deacon? So maybe it was his place? Sam didn't seem tense, he obviously felt safe here, and Dean decided that if Sam thought it was okay then he didn't really care where he was.

"How're you feeling?"

_Like I've been hit by a semi that stopped and backed over me again. _Dean didn't think there were words in the English language to adequately describe how he felt right now. His body was one massive ache with flares of pain and his head was so fuzzy. He couldn't think straight and could barely get his body to do what he wanted it to. He knew he could only partly blame that on the drugs--he wasn't sure what to blame for the rest. The memories of the past week fluttered on the outskirts of his thoughts, threatening to crash in, swamping him with their intensity.

_Like shit_, seemed a good approximation, short and to the point. But the words got lost on the way to his throat like they were ephemeral, written in smoke only to be carried away by the wind. Dean realised he didn't want to talk. It was better that way, safer, although he wasn't sure why.

He was confused by the lack of cooperation between brain and voice but didn't dwell on it as a more pressing need made itself known. He threw back the covers but before he had the chance to move, Sam's arm was on his chest, pinning him down with ridiculous ease.

"Wait. Where're you going?" Sam asked.

He fixed Sam with a stare. Trusting Sam to figure it out he tried to rise again, only to be pushed back onto the bed again.

"You're in no state to go anywhere, Dean."

Frustration--and the knowledge that if he didn't do something soon he'd be lying in a wet bed--broke through the barrier.

"Bathroom." Dean managed mutter.

"Oh."

Clearly boy wonder hadn't realised that all the fluids they were pushing into him had to come out at some point.

"Right. Okay."

Sam's arm snaked around Dean's shoulders—mindful of the dislocation--and eased him upright. The room spun, dizzying loops and swirls, but settled quickly. Dean decided it wasn't too bad, even thought he could make it to the bathroom by himself, only to be suddenly grateful that Sam wasn't going to let him even try when his knees buckled immediately upon standing.

"Whoa, easy there." Sam held on tight around his waist while Dean tried to find his feet. "You gonna be able to walk there?"

Dean broke free of Sam's grip, swayed, but stayed on his feet. _There's your answer, Sam._

"Okay, c'mon. It's just down the hall."

Sam held the IV bag for Dean and steadied him with a hand on his elbow but otherwise let Dean make the slow trek by himself. The bathroom was small enough that Sam could set the saline on the shelf above the sink and there was still enough length in the tubing that Dean could use the toilet without it falling. Sam waited outside, after ordering Dean not to lock the door.

By the time they made it back to the bed again, Dean was shaking with exertion and in serious pain. The movement had truly awakened all his cuts and bruises and he was finding it hard to breathe through the agony in his ribs.

He closed his eyes and was concentrating on dealing with the pain until he felt the burn in his arm with the IV and saw Sam re-capping a needle.

"Morphine. You looked like you needed it."

And before Dean could say thank you, the arms of morpheus had stolen him away into the darkness.

**TBC**

* * *

As always, your reviews are what motivates me and makes this worthwhile. I'd love to hear what you think about the chapter. :)


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